


He'd rip out his own teeth for a laugh

by Fek



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Depression, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Self-Harm, impulsive behaviour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:45:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6216802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fek/pseuds/Fek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shizuo has always followed whatever intuition came with first impressions; his gut is never wrong. An example is the flea: the boy who set off every danger alarm possible in 5 seconds. His gut is telling him something's wrong with Izaya, and he has to figure it out before whatever the man is planning destroys him.</p><p>Izaya was raped, but he doesn't know how to deal with the emotional trauma. Shizuo's point of view, primarily. Rating changed to M for the things I originally tagged for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's the adrenaline still pumping under your skin that sends you to Shinjuku. The blood from the fresh cuts marring your skin and the quickly healing bruises are enough proof: it's his fault. Your fists are still clenched as they were when they connected with the fuckers who attacked you, and you can't wait to use them on him. Everything is too loud and too slow. Fuck gangs, and fuck Izaya in particular.

When you make it to his apartment, the only thing going through your head is _kill kill kill kill kill._ At this point, it's not surprising. You almost break your finger smashing the button for the elevator. You resist the urge to inhale a cigarette on the way up. The violence and anger in your system is still pulsing loudly, making it hard to think. To breathe. It's painful to stay still. And it's all his fault. You think you'd be doing a favour for humanity if you actually killed him this time. _Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill..._

 _Kill kill kill_ \-- his door is unlocked. He's been expecting you. Of course he has. He set a gang on you to bring you here-- yet again-- and here you are. The door smashing into the wall reverberates inside the dark apartment. You barely notice past your tunnel vision and the ringing in your ears. You need to find him. You need to punch him. "Izaya..." You growl, dark and loud.

The sound of shattering glass sets off your "something is wrong instinct." Your eyebrows knit as you begin to analyze your surroundings for the first time, some foreign sense of danger prickling at your neck. Your eyes squint through your shades, as if it would help you to see in the dark. _The door was unlocked, but he's not waiting_.... You hear his footsteps before you see any change, just like you felt the chill before you heard any change. His gait is all wrong as he walks and the thoughts to kill stop as if they sputtered out of gas. It's too quiet without them.

Izaya is as lanky and thin as always as he steps around the corner, wearing nothing but a towel. His knuckles are bleeding profusely, and you can tell it's fresh from the smell. His body language is off. Dreadfully off. He steps not with confidence or joviality, and his irritating smirk is vanished. Instead, he wears an expression you didn't know he could make: deadpan annoyance. You feel your brain stutter.

"The fuck do you want." His tone sounds sickeningly mature, as if he finally decided to grow the fuck up at the age of 24. The voice sounds as if it's been grated past his throat by force, and it sets off another warning in your head. _Something is different._ Something is very very different, and it's something important. Because Izaya doesn't swear.

You suddenly don't remember why you're here. Your anger hasn't just evaporated, it's sublimated without a trace. It's been replaced with something else. The words slip past your lips before you can stop them. "Oi, Flea. What's up with you." _Wrong wrong wrong wrong...._

The tension in the room quadruples. His instant reaction is a scowl, twisting his face into something slightly easier for you to associate with the bastard. "If Shizu-chan came to inquire on my schedule, then he wasted his time. My work keeps me busy, being a stable job and all. Not that someone as stupid and volatile as you would understand that, though."

"And who's fault is that, hah?" It's the surge of anger that gets you to speak that time, whipping across your thoughts like a riding crop.

"Get out of my apartment, Shizuo." His voice drops an octave, carrying some sense of danger, real danger, that he has never demonstrated before. Realistically, you could beat Izaya to death right there and then if you wanted. There wasn't much reason to obey, but then again, you usually act on gut feelings. You close the door behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing in Shizuo's perspective is very alien to me. idk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izayas pov from last chapter.

When did he last sleep? He traced his fingers along the insomnia-bruises under his eye. He hated the feeling dragging along his skin; his hands were too cold, the tips too soft. In his belly, a visceral clench had him fighting back the urge to vomit. Yes, he really has come to hate his own touch. Steam clouded over his reflection. He looked fine, handsome even. His borderline feminine features seemed enhanced by the contrast of lack of sleep, rather than diminished. He was still the same brilliant bastard, he still felt the same obsessive fondness for humans. Nothing had changed.

Except for the feeling of lines on his skin. Lines of dirt, grime plastered wherever fingers had touched him. Three daily showers couldn't wash away the invisible lines that mapped his skin like wires of tar. Down his back, across his chest, leaving visible bruises of delicate reds and purples pressed into his hips. In his reflection, his hand moved to follow the lines, slowly. Deliberately. His fingertips matched to much larger marks. He instinctively dug his nails in with a scowl, torn between carving out every blemish and making it worse. Silence and shower steam fogged the mirror like the growing fog of sickness in his head.

His name growled lowly ripped him out of the fog, shoving him back to _it_. Suddenly there were hands grabbing him and pulling him against his will, rough and unforgiving. Panic rose in his throat, paralleling the hand rising to grip his jaw. Darkness, darkness everywhere. Disgusting dark _filth_ that kept him from seeing his surroundings. His jaw was ripped open, screams being quickly choked out. It hurt to breathe, like knives cutting his trachea.

It was the shattering glass that dragged him back to the present. The vanity spotlight on his shoulder blades was overwhelmingly hot. His breathing was shallow panting, each breath passing without having been absorbed. His knuckles were sliced open, blood quickly welling up through the holes.

His expensive Italian mirror lay in shards in his sink. Maroon, shadowed eyes had adopted his bitter stare.

But voices couldn't come from nowhere.

Shizuo was more annoying and stupid than ever. The beast squinted around his apartment as if Izaya had replaced every piece of furniture with an exact copy. When Izaya spoke, his brows furrowed with confusion and his stance took on a more defensive position. When he spoke, he still managed to take Izaya off-guard.

"Oi, Flea. What's up with you?"

The hatred welled up faster than his blood in his knuckles, faster than ever before. He wanted to plunge a knife through the man's throat, or twist it into his rib cage to ensure maximum suffering. Shizuo is always and unpredictable bastard, so stupid, yet always knowing something. He wanted Shizuo dead for daring to ask, for thinking a monster such as himself had a right. His fingers twitched with the urge to produce a knife out of thin air and flay him, press the tip into his skin and pull it until it left a bright wake down his chest. He imagined the beast of a man writhing in pain because of him as he spat venom without the drive to make it hurt.

Shizuo left at 8:42 PM, and Izaya locked the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I relate a lot more to Izaya, but this was still tricky.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time you feel the unshakable need to kick his ass so hard you'd be wearing him as a slipper, is when another fucking gang attacks you. You count two this week as you send some douchebag who thinks he's hot stuff flying. You don't bother to finish the street brawl before stalking back off to the enemy's castle.   
  
The rush is always the same: bright red that tints your world and narrows your sight. The piercing ring is always the same. The energy that builds until it overflows in your muscles is always the same. You have to move, or it hurts. You can barely focus enough to breathe. Everything is moving as if it were made of molasses, but screaming and rumbling like a five year old with a drum set made of old pots. You don't know how to deal with this. You never did. Thinking is painful; the anger lashes at your brain and you can only focus on the thing you hate most. You hate being angry almost as much as you hate what it brings. But you still hate Izaya more than that.   
  
You break his lock, possibly his three locks, when you kick in his door this time. His smell of imported soaps and expensive everything hits you the minute that divider is gone, and your gut clenches like Izaya is Pavlov ringing a bell.  _ Kill kill kill kill kill.  _ You move as if you're trying escape the air that binds you, locating the concentration of everything Izaya with ease. A bedroom. You think. It looks to be a pretty fucking excessively large bedroom, typical of someone as egotistical as the parasite. You go for the door handle but miss, effectively batting already ajar fixture open. Blood is pounding in your ears as you strut up to a California Queen-sized bed and the figure buried in a duvet.   
  
You could kill him here and now. You're angry enough. You think about how peaceful your life could be, barely comprehending the idea past the smog of rage. Your fist raises above your head, about to come down and paint the sheets a rusty red. But you hesitate. Izaya is the most despicable human in existence. Of course he is. He's done nothing but ruin the lives of everyone around him. You know that. Call it stupidity or mercy; you can't do it because you see his eyebrows pinch in his sleep.     
  
You're instantly brought back to Kasuka's tiny form curled into his blankets, flinching and whimpering in his sleep.  There are no cures for nightmares, but you tried anyways. You remember awkwardly patting his head, trying to comfort him in his dreams. You remember the tender concern that older brothers are supposed to hold for their siblings. You can't kill Izaya when he's wearing Kasuka's face instead of his own.   
  
That predicament disappears when maroon eyes blink to meet yours.   
  
You only dodge the thrown knife because your body rarely asks for your consent before acting. The blade is embedded in the drywall behind you as Izaya jolts into a fighting crouch. The hesitation you had crumbles. "What the fuck, Izaya!"   
The punch you throw misses-- Izaya is wide awake.   
  
"Same to you, Shizu-chan. Mind telling me why you're in my apartment?" The sparring begins as per usual. His speed is exactly equal to your imprecise blows fuelled by anger.   
  
"Maybe if you tell me why I've been fucking attacked by gangs twice in the last week!" You lunge at his half-clothed form. There's a flicker of doubt that passes in his eyes as he slips out of your reach.   
  
"I haven't sent any gangs after Shizu-chan." The emphasis is on the word sent, turning the phrase into a defensive sword.   
  
"Like hell you haven't!" You yell, landing a hit that sends him flying into a ceiling high closet. It's the first clue that something is still wrong with Izaya. You were able to hit him. He lands with a hollow thump and you prop him up with both hands pressed into his lean biceps. "You're going to tell me what the fuck you've been planning right now."   
  
His gaze seems almost delirious for a split second before he subtly begins to struggle against your grip.   
  
"What if I told you I'm not planning anything?" His smirk seems strained, you notice as you bore into his eyes with your own. You push him harder against the sleek white surface.   
  
"How fuckin' gullible do you think I am? Something's up with you, flea. And I'm not letting you ruin my life again."   
  
"You ruined your own life, Shizu-chan. It's your own fault you can't control your strength." You slam him into the door again. He flinches in response. He always brings you to this point: trembling, too hot, unable to think clearly. He's the reason you get blood on your cuffs more often than not, and he's the reason you can't trust yourself. He loves it. He loves dancing around you, poking and prodding and leading you to a climax of thundering rage-- the kind where you scale buildings without a second thought. You want him dead. Gone. Permanently removed from your life. The problem is that you can't bring your hands up to hit him repeatedly. You can't do more than leave a black eye or break a bone. The fact the you hate hurting even Izaya, the scum of the earth, proves that you have a human heart. Unlike this bastard.   
  
Izaya is rarely still enough for you to observe him and carve any details besides that shit coat into your mind. Now, his knife is forgotten behind you, out of his reach, and he's trapped and useless. His lips are still pulled into a half smirk, revealing a grin as sharp as razor blades. His eyes are circled by the evidence of restless sleep, stabbing into yours with practiced force. He's too thin to be as strong and agile as he is, all lanky bones and borderline anemic skin. His alabaster hair, soft from his salon brand shampoo, half frames his face and covers his left eye. He smells like money and something alien and sterile. It's the kind of smell that lingers in the back of your throat as if you swallowed a penny.   
  
He winces when his back is pushed against the closet harder. You figure that might've been the cause for the sudden pang of danger that has you flipping him onto the floor with his arms pressed behind him. You suppose you should be checking for weapons, but your eyes are drawn to long scratches crisscrossing his back. They're red, pink, white, and every shade thereof. Some are scabbed over, others picked off. On the floor Izaya is sputtering like a wet cat, trying to thrash against gravity and your weight, two very strong forces.   
  
"Hold still." You spit at him.  _ Either he got laid by a particularly vicious girl... _ There is blood under his fingernails. You suddenly know he had left these marks on himself, as suddenly as you knew there was a reason besides the usual that Izaya hadn't turned his back to you five minutes earlier.  _ Why the fuck would this psycho hurt himself? _ __   
  
"Izaya-kun." You growl at him.   
  
It's as if he's been hit with a taser. One moment he was wiggling with vitality to match a large fish, the next he's jolted into a trance. His eyes are too wide for his shrunken pupils. His fingernails are digging crescents into his palms. He's not breathing.   
  
"...Oi... Izaya."   
"Izaya?"   
"What the fuck. Izaya!" He takes a breath. And another, much too fast. And another. And another.    
  
"Jesus fuck. Izaya, breathe!" You've taken to picking him up and waving your hand in front of his unresponsive eyes. You grab both sides of his face and meet his vision with your own.   
  
"Izaya. Look at me." He releases his fists and shifts his gaze. It instantly sours.   
  
"You're the ugliest monster I've ever seen."   
  
When it comes to Izaya, you hate being human. You hate being a good (kind of) person to someone like this. But your body never wants to listen to your brain, and concerned threats pour out of your mouth. "If you don't tell me what the fuck is going on with you, I will break all of your bones."   
  
"My my, if Shizu-chan wants to go to such measures, who am I to deprive him? Break away, beast."   
  
"Fine then, bastard, how about I just break all of your phones and tech shit?"   
  
"Shizu-chan should know that everything is backed up several times. Or is he just that exceptionally stupid?"   
  
Never have you met a man so infuriating. "Izaya-kun..."   
  
He instantly freezes and shifts his weight further away, starting to reach for his knife.  __ Don't even try it. You grab at him and pull him, only to begin violently shaking him. He scoffs and head butts your chin. It manages to make you pause briefly.   
  
"If there was something wrong, you aren't the one I'd tell." His voice is low and challenging, persuading you to argue with the statement. You don't. You are too angry to form words, and he will always tie up everything you say into a demented spiderweb. You stand up in silence and exit, passing a less than half eaten, three day old plate of food on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most interesting part of this was describing Shizuo's anger here. I fee like i did a good job, but I also apologize for the roughness of his thought process. It's definitely...weird.... I, personally, find it difficult to grasp because it seems very backwards to me.
> 
> Oh yeah and I might actually start updating this as well. Maa, who knows?


	4. Chapter 4

Izaya has not been in Ikebukuro for a grand total of eleven days now, and the realisation of that alone is reason for you to smile. The air has never felt cleaner, and you haven’t felt this light on your feet since you stopped yourself from punching Seika-not-Seika in the face. Tom has noticed your unusual happiness and has gone out of his way to ensure the day progressed smoothly. If you believed that happiness lasted, you might even believe that this was the beginning of an era of peace. 

 

Yeah right. You’re not book smart, but you’re also not a fucking idiot. You are going to enjoy the day while it lasts, because you don’t know the next time you’ll feel so free.

 

The apartment you enter behind Tom smells repulsive. Even as a veteran hardened to the elements of poverty, laziness, and whatever else scumbags dwell in, you feel your stomach twist and you swallow a little bit of bile. There is the carcass of a dead rodent by the door. The kitchen sink is piled with sludge. Literal trash is scattered across the floor and appears to be loosely collected in front of a closet. Beneath the taste of sewer gas and curdled milk on your tongue, however, there is the smell of something vaguely familiar; something you’ve encountered recently. Tipping your head to one side, you sniff through the fog of the mess to discern what the fuck about this you would’ve possibly encountered recently. 

 

The man in question scuttles out from a back room, hair greasy and nails too long. He starts fumbling through excuses and his rights with a nasal voice like he’s rehearsed his part. He probably has. You let Tom try to talk to him, but it doesn’t matter. You already can tell this one is going to need force.

 

You’ve sorted about half the scents when you can finally place the one that caught your attention. It’s a container of old sushi left on the counter by the fridge, reeking of rotten fish and mouldy rice. From there, you begin to connect the dots.

 

Their arguing begins to get louder as the pressure rises in your head. It’s boiling up and your anger begins to bubble again because the memory finally clicks and all you can think is  _ how dare you ruin my only good day. _ The squirrelly looking man is shouting about his ownership of something unimportant. You’re fixating on the smell of fancy tuna gone bad.

 

“Get off my property--”

 

“Shut the fuck up!” you bellow, slamming your fist into the wall as punctuation. You cross the distance in three deliberate steps. Your fist is pulling him up by the stained neckline of his shirt, but you barely notice because anger is pushing at the back of your skull again. “Clean your damned living space,” you growl, “and pay off your fucking debts.” On the way out, you whip the sushi container at the wall behind the man, your fingers twitching for a cigarette.

 

The air outside doesn’t feel so fresh as you breathe in a chest full of smoke. Your head is buzzing again as nicotine begins to melt into your system. The redness is subsiding and fading into warm greys that tickle your brain and calm your lungs. You try to exhale the taste of sushi with the smoke. It doesn’t go-- it hovers at the back of your throat like the cloud hovers and swirls in the air. You take another drag.

 

Only Izaya would manage to ruin your day by being nowhere near you. It pisses you off, how much he has you wrapped in his games like a rabbit on a racetrack. You wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow planned this, being the scheming bastard he is.

 

You don’t think about going to kill him, though. You take another drag.

 

If he had not left a plate of three-day-old tuna by the door, none of this would’ve happened. You would’ve been able to walk into the apartment and focus on the task. You would’ve been able to handle the situation without anger clouding your judgment.

 

You take another drag, letting cigarette tar cement you together and tobacco smoke restores your senses. When you open your eyes, Tom is beside you.

 

“Case closed.” He says idly, staring at something you can’t see. You grunt in agreeance and gratitude, aiming your breath away from him.

“Should I ask?”

“Bad sushi reminded me of Izaya.” Brevity is the soul of wit, or whatever they say. It's good Tom has known you for a long time.

“Orihara-san left sushi out?” He doesn’t bother to ask why you were there, which is very kind of him.

“Yeah.”

“Weird.” You eye him suspiciously. “He seems like a high maintenance kind of guy. Doesn’t seem like the type to leave sushi out.” 

 

You freeze in place. It’s true. Your warning signals start flashing through the numbness left by the cigarette, like a broken strobe light. Something is wrong, because Izaya doesn’t leave sloppiness behind. He gets off on planning and backup planning, weaving webs of elaborate lies and calculated disaster in his wake. He doesn’t forget things like keeping his environment clean, he doesn’t leave unfinished business in any situation.

 

Furthermore, doesn’t Izaya love fancy tuna?

 

_ Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong _ is gnawing in your gut once again. It’s like a drill that delves deeper into your core the longer it waits. It’s not a niggling fear like sounds behind you in the dark, it’s like an old man whispering warnings to you on his deathbed, eyes cracked wide with fear and trembling voice tickling the back of your neck. You are reminded of what you already knew: something is very wrong with Izaya.

 

“Are you good for the next case or should we break?”

 

You look at Tom as you tap the butt between your fingers on a wall. “Keep going.” You say, tossing said butt into someone else's trash pick up. Izaya is having problems, but it's not affecting you, so why do you care?

 

You don't. You do. Your conscious worries at itself for the rest of the day, into the night as you follow Tom down side streets lit with LED signs. Somehow, the parasite not eating, not cleaning, has you fighting to stay focused. Of course eating disorders are something you're familiar with. (You may have binge read on them when you heard they were a big concern in the film industry.) You know that playing with anorexia is like playing with mortality. It's a delicate balancing act of vanity and survival, and if it were anyone else you would have reason to be worried.

 

But it's not anyone else. It's Izaya.

 

You hate him for causing you this turmoil on top of everything else. How could someone who tries to kill other people for fun be worthy of sympathy? How can you just ignore something that might be serious, once directly involved?

 

You prefer things with simplicity and peace. Things in your head are ruled by feelings-- instinct and emotions that work together to guide you through what to or to not trust, and as you're going through the motions you add up the evidence. You let them lead you. They have yet to be wrong. Never before have they been so convoluted and ambivalent, swirling inside you, exuding from your form and spiralling up between the skyscrapers.

 

The day you stay up  _ worrying _ about  _ Izaya’s well-being _ is the day hell freezes over, but tonight Satan better put on a parka because you can't see three feet in front of you through the darkness but you're calling Kasuka.

 

“Hello?” He sounds beyond groggy, as if he had no intention of picking up until he looked at the display.

"Kasuka, would you let a super villain die?"   


"... What?" You hear the unsaid  _ the fuck? _ on the end.   


"I mean, do you think that absolutely everyone, even the ones worse than scum, deserves sympathy?”

A moment of hesitation. “That’s deep, niisan.”

“You're good with deep shit.”

“It's three-thirty in the morning.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry.”

You can practically envision him pinch the bridge of his nose as he sighs into the receiver. “Did something happen?”

“No. So imagine there’s this really bad person who might be in trouble, and--”

“Okay. If this person is as bad as you say they are--”

“They're terrible.”

“Right. If they're terrible, and I take it you're wondering if you should save them, why bother? It's karma.”

 

Even though he has a point, something uncomfortable twists inside of you, like the idea of leaving someone for dead is as bad as the action.

 

“Do you agree with that?”

“Huh?” You snap back to Kasuka’s voice.

“If you don't like how that made you feel, then don't do it.”

Your chest blossoms at Kasuka’s intuition. Only your brother would know the ins and outs of your conscience better than yourself.

“Thanks.”

He hums. “In all seriousness, I will debate the pros and cons of that with you any other time. But right now I need to sleep.”

“Oh yeah. Good night.”

His response is hanging up. You can’t blame him, it’s way too late for this shit.

 

You lay back down, not bothering to fumble with a charging cord in the dark. 

  
Still, the very thought of a black coat lined in fur makes your head throb and your fists clench. You grit your teeth to keep from growling at nothingness. If you talk to him at all, you know you’ll be fighting the urge to beat his machiavellian head in. There’s a compromise that comes to mind: you’ll check on the bastard sometime after work, and only if he really, truly _ needs _ help or support or whatever, will you go back. If not, the fucker can handle himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was fast and rough. But what do you guys think of chapter lengths? This is around 4 pages. For reference, when I'm at my laziest I can write a page a day and it takes from 2 to 4 days to edit. So, do you guys want longer chapters? Additionally, critique me! For grammar and phrasing specifically... I suck at that....


	5. Interlude: Icarus

Mortality was a prison, constructed by biology to limit potential. Izaya had always known this. He knew from too young that the only way to transcend the cage of life was to rewrite history. Humans, for all of their interesting, infuriating, insipid,  _ infinite _ quirks, and lives, were truly... insignificant. They lived from day to day; coming from dust, collecting dust, and returning to dust. Mortality doomed them all to the same fate of being erased by time.

Izaya was Icarus. The sun was his salvation, because if one could touch the sun, they would never be a name on a tombstone. He chose to be a god, so why let such a dream slip through his fingers like dust through an hourglass? He made wings for himself of cunning words and knowledge. He flew, propelled by rushes of adrenaline high and the fear of falling. He played with his mortality, dodging death every time he twisted away from danger and conquering it with a skilful knife hand. He flew upwards, to overlook humanity-- his beloved humans-- and see the kingdoms they built crumble while his own empire grew. It didn’t matter if he was covered in soot and sweat and hot wax and blood, because seeing everything from above made his fingers tingle with ecstasy.

Izaya was Icarus. Icarus fell, like all giants do.

But Izaya’s wings didn’t melt from the heat of the sun. They were ripped out by the rabble he so carefully hovered over.

Blackened hands clawed and grasped at him, tugging, pulling, plucking feathers because they wanted a taste of the sunshine he basked in; because they wanted to touch what had made a god great. Because he wouldn’t give them what he had made. They ripped away the limbs that had become a part of his being, leaving streaks of dirt and tar burned into his skin with a fire hotter than the sun had ever been. They left him crippled and waiting on mortality.

It was hard to use legs after having spent so much time airborne. It was hard to keep onlookers from seeing the crisscross of blackness on his skin and the blood dripping from gouges in his back. But gods were not gods for no reason. He was determined to rise again. The bitterness that he spent his days running from still welled up, offering him a single comfort. And he vowed that one day he would reclaim the wings they had stolen.

But an injured god is merely a mortal human; sickening and weak. A weak human is vulnerable to the world. He would hide away until he could make more wings, until he could flay his abusers with a flick of the wrist and relish in their screams, raw and choked like his own had been. He swore this on his own blood, because there was nothing more precious.

Monsters were the only ones who could reach gods without trying. They walked among humans like ordinary people, but to them, the sky was always within reach. They didn’t need wings to brush against the clouds because the world would bend to their desires. They were anomalies that festered when not cut away at. They were nature-defying beings, for whom mortality was a choice. A monster lived to prey on gods, just as gods existed to crucify monsters.

One day, Izaya awoke to find a monster poking at his wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably add an actual chapter within the next 48 hours, so stay tuned!


	6. Chapter 6

You are in front of his door, and are taking deep breaths, the taste of your cigarette from not five minutes ago on your tongue. Your gut is clenching with apprehension that drains the pulse from your fingers and toes. There is no anger (yet), because what you are about to do isn’t pissing you off, it’s just crazy.

Beyond crazy. It’s absolutely fucking insane. Your brain hums at you as a warning that all of this is about to go horribly wrong the second you set foot into the apartment space. But your conscience controls your gut, which in turn controls your actions. You reach out to grab the door handle, slowly because you’re still waiting for your instincts to yell “abort mission.”

It doesn’t turn. You consider just punching it down, but then you remember that you’re attempting to be civil. So you knock. The dull thump echoes down the empty hall, an unfamiliar sound to your ears that have always been filled with the heat of blood when approaching this door before. Still, you’re left standing in the hall like a tailored mannequin when no one opens it. You knock again, this time filled with the force of embarrassment. You scoff at the lack of response. Didn’t he have a secretary to do shit like this?

You recall the image of the dark sitting area and the smell of rotting food, and it dawns on you that even if he did, she certainly isn’t still around.

After the third knock, you huff and decide doors are more of guidelines than rules anyway. You grip the knob and force it to turn, closing the door behind you as if the internal mechanism isn't permanently warped.

There are places in the world where reality seems more fragile, like in ancient forests or lighting sections of hardware stores. Then, there are places that play on a person’s sense of fear, like dilapidated buildings and alleyways filled with shadows. Izaya’s seemingly deserted apartment transcends these categories. Sunlight flits through the bottom half of the windows where the blinds don't reach. It illuminates names on volumes of books against the walls and the screen of a computer. Dust slowly falls through the air, spiralling down as minuscule white flecks. Time seems slower. It feels as though you've entered a place where real life doesn't  apply, as if someone as chaotic and discordant as the flea can exist here and it can remain so calm, then nothing that occurs outside of this room can taint the aura.

“Tch.” You scowl.

His fridge is empty, save for a half-used carton of eggs, a mess of expired produce, and cheese with grated marks on one side. His cupboards are almost as bare, featuring some peanut butter, spices, and some sauces. The only staple food in his house at all is a large, unopened bag of rice. The garbage is free of takeout containers. Your frown deepens; this isn't good.

Your next mission is to locate the asshole in question, and possibly shove a raw egg down his throat. He isn’t sprawled out on his bed this time.

His bathroom is ridiculously large, containing a shower _and_ bath, as well as a double sink vanity. It's far too spacious for any one person; the cluster of creams at one end of the counter gives a stark and lonely comparison to the emptiness of the other side. Everything is a pristine white, except for the faint outline of where a mirror was once mounted. The room is filled with an eerie silence that's unattainable in normal spaces.

Izaya is in his tub, eyes closed and laying back peacefully. His hands float freely at his sides, wrinkles embedded in his fingertips like canyons in a desert. Unlike last time, his face is free of tension, hair gently flowing around him. Faint red marks glow against his white chest, shoulders, and thighs. Despite habit coaxing you to attack on sight, you can admit he looks ethereal. You reach to wake him.

The water is lukewarm at best. How long has he been sitting here? A brief panic rises in you when he doesn't react to being nudged. But then he takes a breath deeper than the rest and it’s your only warning before those loathsome eyes blink open. The second life returns to his face, you're reminded of all the scars he's left on your skin and self-preservation makes your muscles clench in preparation of pain.

Izaya sits up calmly, his icy stare never once wavering. There are no words to fill the silence between the seconds. He turns to you, skin sliding over prominent bones, bruises and marks moving in turn. You're both visibly on edge, waiting for the first move. Until--

“Shizu-chan?” He smiles like a plastic doll.

“Huh?”

“Get out!” He yells and throws a bottle at you. It hits you in the face, the force painful enough to knock your head back slightly. You probably deserved that. You stand, turn, and exit the room swiftly and mechanically.

 

You can’t deny that he's thinner than the last time you saw him. If it weren't for his hateful eyes and jaded smile, you would regard him as delicate instead of a threat. The objective in your head switches from _ease your weary conscience_ to the more specific _feed him until he won't break from being poked._ But seeing him, smelling him, has you on edge. You're antsy and fumbling as you turn on the stove and search for a pot and pan. You pour the rice and crack an egg with hands that are itching to strangle and break. The suspense in your system is fizzing like a shaken bottle of pop and threatening to overflow.

But you're not angry. Not yet.

At first you were going for a beef bowl, but somewhere along the way you realized that beef was not an available ingredient. You top the rice with a sad looking egg and garnish it with a salvageable green onion. It looks passable. It tastes like gyudon without the beef.

What did you expect?

You put the soya sauce next to the dish.

Waiting for Izaya to come around the corner is nerve wracking. You try to stay calm, but half of you wants to rip out his throat and the other half is desperately trying to keep that at bay. No amount of fiddling with dirty dishes and soap cleanses your mind of your thoughts. He's taking too long. You are about to go fetch him in the middle of cleaning your mess when he makes himself known.

“You're still here?”

He's dressed now, which is more than you can say for the last few times you've seen him.

“Eat.” You force past your lips, no less, no more.

“How domestic of Shizu-chan.” He sneers, nevertheless sliding to sit at the set table. “Is this supposed to be gyudon?”

“It's not my fault you don't have any beef.”

He takes a mouthful with exaggerated vigour, only to wrinkle his nose in disgust. “It's cold.”

“You took too long.” You move to sit in front of him. A bad idea.

“Apologies for taking care of my hygiene.” His fingers drum on the table rhythmically.

“Hygiene doesn't mean passing out in a tub for a day and a half, flea.” You growl, leaning forward.

“I wasn’t aware Shizu-chan was so into my bathing habits.” He mocks, smirking as you begin to slip.

“Just eat the damned food.”

He hums thoughtfully, resting his face on the backs of his hands. One slowly reaches towards the bowl. “No.” He shoves your hard work away harshly, spilling a portion of the contents.

You're suddenly on your feet, hand gripping the table edge as the other is throwing a punch at his unflinching smirk--

You stop.

Your ragged breathing echoes in the room. Your fist is trembling above his head. You feel the table threaten to splinter in your grip. It's a moment of stillness and balance as you try to bend your body back to neutral and Izaya sits calmly in front of you, ear to ear grin dissecting his face. Your hand twitches as it relieves the table of its grip. You remove your glasses and rub your eyes as you sit back down. Why does he have to make everything so complicated? Why does everything involving him lead to a violent rampage?

“Just… eat.” You mutter.

“I do eat,” he leans back again, “ _my_ food. Not yours.”

“Bull fucking shit.” You glare at him over your interlaced fingers, the words spilling from your mouth before you can stop them.

He looks at you strangely. His eyes are cold enough to dampen the fire in your temples. “Is Shizu-chan stalking me?” He says it lightly, but there's a dangerous glint in his expression. It isn't the one he usually uses, it's deeper; it's more personal. You know instinctively that it's the kind of expression others cower away from. You are not others.

“Tch. You fucking wish.”

“Can't say I do.” He says idly, aiming his gaze at the clock. “Let me guess…. You decided to take it upon yourself to find the answers to your questions, and you came up with, what, anorexia? Bulimia?” He chuckles at the thought. You frown. “Get it through your stupid, thick skull: nothing is wrong. You're looking for problems that don't exist. Now do me a favour and go away. Or, do the world a favour, and die.”

The last sentence jabs slightly at your heart, but old insults are useless. You carefully remember the syllables of the words you're trying to speak. “How fucking dense do you think I am, Izaya-kun?”

“Ah, pretty fucking dense.”

You pick through the veins of anger in your mind to assemble your evidence. “Your entire apartment is screwed up.” Dust. Empty cabinets. Rotten sushi. “You've lost weight.” Bones pressing taught against skin. “You fell asleep in a fucking _bathtub_ , long enough for the water to go cold. Use your bigass brain to figure out how long that takes, hah? Something’s fucking up with you, even if you won't admit it.” The tension in the air becomes more and more palpable with every word. His lower lip twitches and you're proud of yourself for being in control.

“Like I said: if there was something wrong, I wouldn't ask for your help.” A quiet growl.

“Then whose fucking help would you ask for? Because clearly I'm the only one who’s given a damn so far.”

He leaves the table, chair legs scraping loudly. He pulls up the blind of the window, revealing the orange glow of sunset over the city.

“Leave.” His tone is brittle instead of slicked with barbs or honey and oil. It sounds raw and rough against your ears, entirely foreign.

“No.” You can be stubborn too. You can be real fucking stubborn.

“Why are you such a monster?” You look at his silhouette, making out features of his hair and the stitch of his clothing past the glare of sunlight.

“Why are you such an asshole?”

He turns to look at you, and you’ve never seen someone so vulnerable. He’s not crying. He isn’t wounded. Nothing about him suggests he is weak.

And yet something is exuding from his being. It’s an overwhelming sadness, apathy, shock, and horror. Something about him in this particular moment makes it seem like he’s pulling away, like he’s waiting for death and clutching a bloody wound. It’s alien and unfamiliar, and it feels private-- like you have no right to witness this. The next moment he’s turned away again, and the lack of a quick comment is somehow terrifying and crippling.

“I don’t know.” He says, voice devoid of all his practised emotions and smooth tones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY I hope this chapter reads as special as it felt to write. Also, funfact: its name was "get out of the kitchen you nut" on my computer.  
> From here, I intend to take the story a slightly more plot heavy direction-- so more chapters flowing into each other, introduction of more than Izaya and Shizuo, and other elements of an actual story. I've never had the consistency to actually keep up with a multi-chapter story before, so this will largely be an experiment. Critique is always welcome, comments are always appreciated.  
> And BTW. If I sound generic as hell responding, it's because I literally can't think of anything cool or funny to say but trust me I do appreciate comments. And conversation. I am a lonely person.


	7. Chapter 7

When you think of Izaya, you think of words that are so polished they lose their meaning. You think of strings of disaster that tangle your world into an unnavigable mess all leading back to ringed fingers. You think of dulled knives and sharpened smiles and a heart that beats malice rather than kindness. You think of a sadistic coward who never fights his own battles, yet somehow how holds the world in his hands.

You don't think of silence because his voice might crack, you don't think of stillness because you're too frozen to punch him.

You've never associated him with the emotion of pity before, either.

He stares over the city like it's the only thing that exists. Of course, it's beautiful; that much you can understand. Sunset melts into twilight and the light that makes his apartment seem undisturbed by time begins to dissipate. For what seems like hours, you watch him do absolutely nothing, the clock ticking reminds you that it's been fifteen minutes at most.

It's not peaceful. Nothing with Izaya is ever peaceful, nor has it ever been. You two have been like fire and wind since your first encounter: him feeding your rage and twisting out of sight only after the blazing tornado he had created had already burned away everything you cared about. Rather than at ease, you are attentive and observant, waiting for his weight to shift or his head to tilt or his breathing to stutter. Your instincts aren't hammering at you to attack or leave, but hone and focus your determination.

He's waiting for you to excuse yourself. You don't; you won't. You know he knows that.

"Izaya." Your voice is gruff as ever, like sand and gravel flowing through a sieve.

His shoulders shrug in mock laughter. "Shizu-chan doesn't know when to stop." But the game is over: you both know that no amount of lies can change his lapse in power from moments before. It’s easier than ever to see through his act. He cocks his head to look at you.

“Has Shizu-chan ever heard of Icarus?”

“...Hah?” The relevance of high-school level English class is lost on you.

He shrugs away your remark. “As expected of a single-celled idiot.” Every time you’ve heard that line echoes back in your head. You hear enthusiastic, leering, and sarcastic tones in your memory, but the only sounds that touch your ears are feeble and hollow.

“I know about Icarus, you jackass.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction to be offended.

“Hm.” He looks back out the window, bored with conversation.

“Well?” You prompt.

“Well, what?”

“What the fuck do wings and a bad sunburn gotta do with this?”

He chuckles again, and you think you may have mistaken which legend was which.

This time his whole body swivels to face you, his expression unreadable. “It wasn’t the sun.”

“What the fuck.” The disbelief leaks through your voice. Izaya is indirect and tedious, but what does this have to do with eating or not? Especially when, “Yes it was.” You didn’t spend two weeks studying a stupid story only to not remember the moral of greed and humility or whatever the fuck else.

He just narrows his eyes. They glint dangerously. “Not this time.”

The way it hits you is like a truck-- you would know. It knocks you completely off balance, sending you flying. You land just as roughly, like skidding on pavement and gravel. It knocks the wind from your lungs and turns you to lifeless clay until you pull yourself from the dirt. Sometimes you just _know_ things you shouldn’t, like birds whisper secrets into your ears in the night; but sometimes you get these epiphanies.

Izaya is giving you a hint. You have no idea what he’s talking about. You don’t understand what kind of parallel he’s drawing between a boy reaching the sky and the chaotic world you both live in. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever twisted reality he’s seeing doesn’t matter. The  critical point is that the sun isn’t the culprit in Izaya’s eyes.

Izaya is giving you a hint. A shiver runs down your spine as the second wave of understanding hits you: he wants you to know. He expects you to unravel the riddle because his pride is choking out his words. It's almost like some kind of fucked up challenge paired with an undeserving reliance on you, and _he can’t seriously want me to figure shit out, can he?_ You consider everything else, wracking your brain for options when you already feel the answer pressing into you as he refuses to look away.

Izaya is giving you a hint; Izaya is giving you the choice of helping him in the most complicated way possible. Izaya is too caught up in his own image and too cowardly to even ask for help like a normal human being, but he’s so desperate that he will accept help from the likes of you. You swallow a bitter laugh at how ridiculous-- how pathetic he is. Part of you wants to beat his skull into a bloody pulp for making even your strained goodwill a game. Part of you wants to leave, let him stand in complete isolation with the taste of his own sadistic medicine on his tongue.

Part of you wants to approach him and nurse all the cracks in his existence back to flawless innocence. (But, when was he ever innocent? From what you know, the fucker has always been a hellion.)

Due to all three of your options being unhelpful, you draw a blank.

You didn’t plan to speak, but so far the rest of your plan has gone to shit anyways. “Eat.” His hands clench into fists. “Please….” you add as a murmur. You look up to meet his eyes, unaware of when you looked down, and now it’s your turn to feel too open and honest. You can feel care warming your body, similar yet so very different from anger. You know it’s showing in your eyes but directing this feeling anywhere near Izaya is uncomfortable and bewildering. And then the sombre aura of the room shifts.

He scoffs at you, your weakness, and marches up to the fridge, seething newfound anger. From inside he plucks out a single stalk of softening celery, and without washing it, takes a bite. He makes eye-contact as he chews. His own hatred has returned, and you can feel him attempting to cut you apart without knives.

Reciprocating, you can feel your pulse shifting to accommodate your rising blood pressure. He swallows uncharacteristically loudly and the chant that fills in your mind comes easier than the breath you’ve been holding: _hate hate hate hate hate hate hate._

“Delicious.” He grins a grin that doesn’t touch his eyes. He slides closer to you, pressed along the counter tops and nibbling on the celery that apparently tastes much better than cold beefless-beef bowl. Neither of you wavers as he drops his free hand to play with the handle of a drawer. “Ah, but, I think it’s time for Shizu-chan to go home.”

Of course he goes for the cutlery drawer filled with knives. Your patience is stretching thinner.

“Finish the damned celery.” You growl in exasperation. He does, with exaggerated vigour and a glare that would paralyse lesser men. You keep your hands curled in tight fists for restraint and your eyes tracking the movement of his hands on the drawer handle.

The stalk gradually shrinks until pale greens and whites are touching his lips. He smiles sweetly as he raises it to shoulder height, only to drop it on the ground. “That’s done, ne?” He asks, his voice an octave too high.

You want to throw something at him, just because he has the intention of pissing you off. It’s irrational, more so than most of your urges, because if it were anyone else you wouldn’t care if an entire carton of their own eggs dropped and shattered on their own floor. But this isn’t just a regular scumbag, it’s the fucking louse. You have every reason to kill him right now.

He sees your minor shift in weight as your body moves towards him, and in an instant there’s a paring knife aimed at your throat. “You should leave, Shizu-chan.” He says slowly.

You notice how his hand is trembling, barely visible to the naked eye. You see how a flicker of uncertainty lights his eyes and is gone just as fast. You think back to your fight in his bedroom-- how long ago was that?-- and the feeling of your fist connecting with his flesh. You have a feeling that if you attack him now, you could kill him.

“Whatever.”

Your blood is still boiling as you edge out of the kitchen, his figure is blurred white skin and at least two different shades of black out of the corner of your eye. The knife points at you like a compass needle as you fumble at the entrance; it embeds itself in the wall behind your head when you finally exit the damned place. The broken doorknob shakes when the door slams shut. It creaks open as you march down the hall.

You’re still fuming, but oddly enough, not muttering death threats to yourself when his building is finally in the distance. It’s because you are proud of yourself for spending so much time breathing the same oxygen as the flea and not seriously injuring him. And you’re too busy trying to solve the cryptic Icarus Code. You’re even willing to admit to yourself that you’re designing a meal plan for his undernourished ass, instead of denying it and thinking about work.

You’re not willing to admit that your fixation is on that one moment of vulnerability: a moment of hesitation and preposterous humanity and indescribable pain that you should never have seen. The memory plays at the back of your skull again and again like a replay button has short-circuited in your brain and you know that you’ll never forget any of the feelings that he was exuding.

You’re too busy trying to forget all of the things you were feeling because of that. You don’t know how to associate Izaya with pity.

 

* * *

 

He yells “coming” in a sing-song voice after the first knock, and opens the door not even three seconds later. He smiles up at you.

“Shizuo-kun! Long time no see!” His usual fervour immediately drumming on your temples. He looks you up and down, then knits his brows in confusion. “Is it a broken bone then?”

“Nn.” You grunt in general disagreement.

“Ah, well if it’s not medical reasons, Celty’s out at the moment. But she should be back shortly! Though I have to ask you don’t stay long, Celty and I were going to marathon a few movies. Speaking of which, do you have recommendations? Action, mostly. But I think comedy would also be nice to switch things up--”

“Shinra. Shut up.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He laughs. “Anyway, Celty is out right now, so if you want to come back later….”

“Don’t care.”

“Oh?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Oh! Well, I am a wealth of information. What about?” He shuffles inside, turning on an electric kettle. You follow him, the door clicks shut behind you.

“Izaya.”

Shinra almost drops a cup.

“Seriously?” He turns around, his cheerful smile strained.

“Hm.” You grunt in general agreement.

“I see,” his enthusiastic disposition vanishes, replaced by something more calculated and rigid. “We’d better sit down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just felt weird to write... maybe because I'm terrible at writing plotlines? I feel the push and pull of 'in Shizuo's head' and 'in the real world' might be a bit too dramatic. (There are also a tonne of grammatical errors in this chapter, but I'm counting them as names, honorifics, and "artistic choices of phrasing." That'll fly well in an essay lol)  
> Let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

“What do you want to know?” he asks after you’re both in place at the table. In his hands, he’s cupping a steaming green mug, warm and comforting. You’re holding a taller than average glass, slick from condensation due to the temperature of the milk.

“Why’s he so fucked up?” you ask, because obviously that’s the only question that matters regarding the topic.

“Orihara-kun won’t appreciate me telling you about him, you know.” He says as a forewarning. You furrow your brows.

“Who cares? You’re his only friend.”  _ You’re the only person he won’t kill. _ You take a swig of your milk.

“Ah, well then, you’ll have to specify, because there’s really quite a lot.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” You deadpan. Shinra laughs again, picking the mood up to something more natural.

“Physically, there’s nothing wrong with his brain. We don’t actually know why he is the way he is, it just is. Does that answer your questions?”

“Why does he complicate everything?” Shinra leans back slightly as he thinks.

“For him, everything needs to have a deeper meaning.”

“No fucking shit.”

“Well, think about it this way: what kinds of qualities do you appreciate in a friend?”

“They’re nice.”

Shinra blinks at you as if to say  _ are you kidding? _

“I can see how that would get on his nerves.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you take offence.

“Nothing, nothing,” he waves it away, “but something that straight forward would definitely irritate him.” You can’t see how something so decidedly simple and concise could piss off anyone. It’s functional and clear, without the decoration of extra words or contrasting criteria.

“Orihara-kun enjoys puzzles and details, and the subtler themes of interpretation. So much so, that perhaps he’s made an art of manipulating these things. He finds some sort of entertainment in them. Maybe he finds them fascinating? ‘Fascinating’ is one of the reasons he ‘loves’ humans so much, right?”

You scoff at ‘love.’ It’s utter bullshit. The psychopath clearly loves no one but himself. 

“It’s strange--I know. But he’s good at it.” One good thing about Shinra is that he can predict your thoughts. You suppose it’s an unforeseen benefit of having a headless girlfriend. 

There’s a moment of silence as you chug your milk and he sips calmly.

“Let me put it this way: you like ‘nice’ people. Firstly, that’s a lie because you have attacked many ‘nice’ people simply for the amount of noise they caused. Secondly, who are these people being nice to? Many people can be nice to one person yet be capable of the most vile cruelties to others. And, who is to define niceness? Without an operational definition, nice is merely an abstract concept with many interpretations. Does nice mean that they are kind? Who are they kind to? Does nice imply understanding and open-mindedness? Does one show niceness through giving to charities when it’s needed, or by voting for the underdog? Or is niceness proved with general attitudes to things rather than actions? Furthermore, what good is niceness? What use does it have, and why would you pursue that quality? Is--” You slam your cup on the table as gently as you can while still making noise.

“The fuck are you  _ ever  _ talking about? Nice means  _ nice _ , okay? Stop over-complicating it!”

Shinra, the bastard, merely chuckles and takes another sip as if to detach himself from the situation. “This is what I’m talking about. You jump those hurdles as you get to them and so you have no reason to think about it.”

“Hah? Are you saying I don’t think?” You were wrong to come here, you’re going to kill him. Celty is going to hate you.

“No, quite the opposite. I’m saying Izaya can’t stop thinking. This is always how he thinks, and it irks him just as much that you don’t appear to think about anything.” 

“Why the fuck can’t he?”

“Why ‘the fuck’ can’t you?”

“Why do you have to over-complicate shit as well? Are you allergic to straight answers or some bullshit?”

“Over-complicate? Shizuo-kun, I’m simply putting it so you understand. This is how he feels when he talks to you too.”

You groan loudly and slam your head on the table.

“You know, if you want to understand him, you’ll have to be more open minded. If you don’t understand him, then you’ll always hate each other.” He says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Tch. How the hell does anyone understand a fucking louse?”

“Ah, well… you know….”

He gazes out his window at the daylit cityscape.

“Do you know why I’m friends with Orihara-kun?”

“Because he had top grades and your lonely ass wanted a club.”

“I am insulted! Only part of that is true, and you forget that he was alone as well, so obviously it made sense to talk to him!”

“You mean pester, like you did with me.” You raise your eyebrow, remembering every bloody time Shinra asked about a broken bone.

“You wound me!”

“You deserve it.” He laughs, gazing into his cup as it dies down.

“I befriended him because Celty wanted me to talk to more humans.”

“Hn.” You voice your general disapproval. Obviously. He wouldn’t have talked to anyone if she hadn’t insisted on that. Does he think you’re an idiot? Is he an idiot? Yes, he’s an idiot.

“Well, Izaya is the most human of anyone, don’t you think?”

 

* * *

 

Fuck Shinra for being just as unhelpful as the louse himself. Now you not only had to think way too much about Icarus not dying from the sun, but also about the fact that Izaya cannot  _ not _ be an ass. It pisses you off. You inhale the cigarette between your fingers far too quickly to be healthy.

(A voice that sounds like Kasuka at the back of your head says  _ cigarettes are never healthy, nii-san, no matter what speed you inhale them at. _ You tell it to shut up and go away.)

You’re back at square one, angrily pacing in your apartment and wracking your brain over things that you don’t really want to be thinking about. You really want to take out your anger on something, but you’re off work and you really don’t have the budget for a new wall. Instead, you’ve gone through nearly an entire pack of cigarettes in two hours, practically chain smoking straight out of the box. Despite the soothing kiss of nicotine, your head continues to pound, the tension increasing the more you think about the situation. You hate him. You hate him. You hate him so much.

Why does he have to speak in riddles? Why can’t he just accept help when he needs it like a normal human being? Something’s wrong with him, you’ve always known that. You knew from the way he carried himself that he was incapable of being normal. Meeting him was a horrible twist of fate. The damage he has caused you is beyond what normal people are capable of, and as you try to brainstorm you’re caught in a storm of grudges you have willing held against him. He has tried to kill you. He has tried to destroy you.  _ Why am I helping him? _ You hate him. You hate him. You hate him, and you can’t stop. It pisses you off. You continue to claw at your brain--past the pain and anger-- for any kind of idea that may apply.

Your thoughts bounce rapidly between Icarus and Izaya over and over again. You see a young man soaring through the sky with wings on fire, crashing into waves. You see a young man huddled in darkness, floating in a bath. In your mind’s eye you can see and hear the terror on the man’s face as he begins to plunge, how it wells up and chokes him. In your memory, you see and hear quiet anger and bruises that glide over bones as the man scowls at you. You see a man taking to the sky, soaring for the first time above other mortals. You see a man wallowing in his own mistakes. Icarus. Izaya. Icarus. Izaya. Icarus. Izaya.

And just like that, the men both have his face.

  
You see a young man, crashed on the ground and covered in bruises and burns. He is welling with anger and fear and damaged pride. And he has black hair and a shitty, fur-trimmed black coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In summary: sorry friends. School is hella stressful, I am bad at coping, and I completely forgot I had ao3 until I checked my email the other day. Haha fuck I'm sorry.
> 
> On the plus side, now I know I have this thing going so I may actually try to keep up with it. Haha haaa


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains self-harm at the end.

He blinked when his eyes started burning. Of course, he was seeing the words. The images of various kanji and hiragana reflected onto his retina, but they blurred and moved as his gaze dragged across the lines. The more he willed his eyes to focus, the more the neat lines shifted into indiscernible shapes.

_ Battery at 7%, plug in your computer. _

He scoffed; he absolutely would not. Closing the window, he continued staring--glaring--at different social media outlets. He couldn't make sense of it. Why couldn't he make sense of it? None of the words would connect to their meanings in his mind. Why couldn't he think?

His laptop fan gave one last whir before shutting down, taking the light from the screen with it. His reflection met his eyes, the familiar bitterness present in its expression.

“Che.” He scowled.

He slammed the laptop shut and kick-pushed off the desk, sending his chair backwards and spinning. He stared at the ceiling, hand over his mouth as the chair slowly came to a halt. Why couldn’t he focus? A niggling pain twinged at his temples. He ran his hands back through his hair, pulling, compressing, until the dominant pain came from his own hands rather than the inside of his skull. When he couldn’t focus, he couldn’t work. When he couldn’t work, his clients would become enraged. No one wants an enraged client-- especially not when they’re the kinds of people concerned mothers tell their children to stay away from. If Izaya couldn’t work, he might end up on the “missing” list. Permanently.

Though maybe he wouldn’t mind so much, all things considered.

He suddenly convulsed forward, curling in and doubling over, running his hands through his hair again. But this time, his fingers were tensed like cat’s claws bared and they dragged down the sides of his neck. Angry red lines followed them. Panicking. He jerked his hands into view again. They trembled slightly as he rotated his wrists and his unflexing fingers moved choppily through the air. This long after-- how long had it been?-- he recognised the signs. His footsteps drummed in his ears as he tore down the hall to the bathroom. Seconds later he was hurling up bile and spit, for he hadn’t eaten in too long. He wretched and more liquid landed on the inside of the toilet bowl. He was so pathetic; easily destroyed and disgustingly human. Another gagging fit overtook him. He clenched the sides of seat, pretending it was an anchor. 

Why was he so weak? Why was this still affecting him? He had known other people who had experienced the same things, so was he so ill-prepared to cope with it? Why was he, one of clearly superior intellect and reasoning, so easily brought to his knees? It was humiliating to be so vulnerable. Vile. Eventually, he crawled up to the sink to rinse his mouth. Flushing the toilet behind him with his foot, he gargled and spit. When he looked up, he was met with the faint imprint of where a mirror once was. Sometimes it surprised him. Sometimes he was grateful for the absence of his reflection. Sometimes his own cultrate gaze was overbearing. Sometimes he wanted to defile everything that represented his history. He splashed himself with cold water, slipped into a trance as icy droplets soaked into his shirt.

When he exited that bathroom and entered the common area, it was darker than it had been. How dark was it before? He couldn’t recall. He couldn’t recall much of anything these days, as if there were wasps in his brain. 

The city lights glimmered beneath him, but they held no charm. Time could pass as it pleased as he surveyed his once precious city. He never thought he would live to breathe a breath that wasn’t propelled by his love and fascination of the people walking the streets below him. And yet, it would seem his happiness, or whatever was close to it, was ephemeral. Unfortunate. Though, what was the purpose of happiness again?

He walked closer to press his face against the glass, an imperceptible chill running through him as his skin made contact. All of the awe he once had at the beauty of it was replaced with a dull ache. Oh, how it ached. Swarms of traffic and mobs of people writhed and moved like a single living organism. He wondered-- how many of the individuals of the organism had experienced what he had? Probably some. But none of them would understand his own feelings. Nobody would understand the complexity of his anger. Not the men with their hands in the pockets of other people, or the women that cried and cried for no discernable reason.

It was all an obstacle. The entirety of the world seemed nothing more than  _ in the way _ \-- of his life, his fun, his goals. It made him sick. So filled with things to fear, and even more things composed entirely of fragility and vulnerability. These fragile things were meant to be broken. Burned away. If he still had power, then he’d murder everything. He’d consider it a favour: to weed out hypocrisy and to save his humans from the inescapable pain of living. There was nothing in the world worth saving. It would be better if nothing existed.

He thought he might be scared of that. He peeled himself away from the glass pane, watching the fog from his breath melt into clarity.

A lamp behind him lit his residence, transforming his view into a mirror. When not touching the glass, his shadow, which had created a window, became his reflection. Unfortunate. If he possessed willpower, he would’ve torn his gaze away from himself. He didn’t have the gumption. His nose, the arch of his eyebrows, the maroon of his eyes, the slant of his bangs, all of it was despicable. Anger rose in his chest again, but it wasn’t a fire. His anger was silent and sterile like an empty hospital. It wasn’t rough, but smooth and distasteful, like drinking vinegar and chasing it with copper. And it was intense. Not in the way that a wildfire scorches at the ground, trees, and flesh alike, but in the way it feels to balance on the railing of a very tall bridge over a churning sea. He didn’t want to see this. He would destroy this.

Almost tenderly, he dragged his fingertips across his cheekbone. He dug his nails into is skin and pulled down his face, down his neck. It wouldn’t matter if he were to rip the skin away from his bones. He wanted to. Power returned to his footsteps as he backtracked. He fumbled with the light switches, the fan emitting a low hum as his blind hands met with error. Over the sink. Again, his nails dug into his flesh, carving down in lines. It hurt-- good. He would scratch away until nothing was left of him, until nothing was left of this body that wasn’t him. He produced a knife from his pocket, it flicked open in his hand before meeting the outside of his arm. The outside. He wasn’t some sobbing teenager that wanted attention. He just wanted--

What did he want? He didn’t care. He wanted to not have his arm so pale, so perfect and pristine, when all he could feel was fingerprints. The knife moved slowly through his veins, mimicking the shadow hands that only he could see. He was bleeding how, rusty red splashing on a porcelain sink. It was sluggish and slow, but thick and pungent. And so warm.

Wait. What the fuck was he doing?

The knife clattered on the ground as Izaya jerked to shield his nostrils from the stench of metal. Why was he doing this? He looked around, lunging at the drawer containing antiseptic, a sewing kit and bandages. He rinsed his wound in a panic. His hand was unsteady as he treated himself. What was he thinking, causing harm to himself? Why did he do this? He finished the stitches, uneven and crooked and wrapped his forearm in gauze. His hands were still shaking as he finished. Izaya rested his face in his hands. What was happening to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so its been 2 months but thats better than 4 months maybe one of these days i'll get my shit together. About this chapter: so self harm stuff. i tagged that. i'll try to keep it mild but............ lol. this chapter was okay to write? im hoping people notice the slight differences in shizuo's perspective and izaya's perspective. and that izaya's feelings feel visceral here.


	10. Chapter 10

The TV blares, something about an apartment building on fire. You glance up at the footage, tracking sirens and screaming civilians. You hate local news. If it’s not about something you broke, then it’s some other depressing shit. _Oh, an apartment building is on fire; oh, there’s been a drastic rise in gang activity; oh, all the street signs in Ikebukuro are being replaced again!_ Why bother watching? You flicked the remote, stopping the TV from murdering the silence. You ruffle your hair and look up at your ceiling, observing the uneven bumps. You had no obligations today, nowhere to be. There was nothing to keep you occupied, or for that matter to distract you. Of fucking course it would come back to this; when does it not?

You need a cigarette.

You’ve always thought it pretty, how cigarettes glow when they’re inhaled. The tiny embers remind you of sparks drifting up from a fire, or maybe stars hanging in the sky. Passive and pretty. It’s a quiet night: few people. Fewer noises. The nearby traffic is reduced to a subtle hum. It’s times like these that you revel in. The butt between your fingers is warm and familiar.

And still, Izaya is on your mind. Absent-mindedly, your hand drifts to your chest. He had left a scar there. Of course, you’re covered in scars from him and others. There were bullet wounds, burns, knives, and even a mark on your palm where someone had stabbed you with a pencil. He’s caused at least half of your visible scars, and every bruise you’ve had since high school. And yet, when you think of scars, you always think of the one that he left himself. It’s clean and pale and though you can’t see it through your shirt, you can still feel everything you felt the moment he carved it there. Shock. Danger. Disbelief.

Fear.

Not because he could hurt you, but because he was different. All the boys with raging hormones challenged you to prove their worth, some of them actually hit you. But none had been so _like Izaya._ If they had managed to hit you, it was for your reputation. Izaya had matched your skills, attacked with the intention to break _into you_. With the intention to have you never forget him.

Of course it worked, of fucking course he’s carved into your mind.

Damn it all. You curse as you pull out your phone, dial the number you shouldn’t even know. It rings. It dies. You try again. Repeat. On the fourth dial, you hear the click of a connection followed by slight breathing.

“Hey."  
“Shizu-chan.”  
“Sup.”  
“What’s this? Calling to check in? How sweet.”  
“....”  
“Bye then--”  
“Wait.”  
He, for some reason, pauses.  
“Yeah. How are you?” Your words are curt and awkward and feel like dollhouses in your throat: plastic and painted, faking something like a home.  
“....”  
“Izaya-kun?” It feels forced, not yelling those syllables.  
You hear a puff of air against the receiver before the line goes dead. 

Your pride flares up as you hold yourself back from throwing the yellow box. Your blood pressure escalates slightly and your grip tightens. You don’t know why you fucking bother.

 

* * *

 

“I was robbed!” He yells, gesturing wildly at poorly repaired furniture. You growl and step forward.

“How do we know you're not a filthy liar, hah?”

“I swear upon my daughter’s life!” He puts his hands up and scurries across the room to his wallet. The painfully unmemorable man pulls out a cheque book and a wad of cash, hands shaking. “Look, I can give you half now-- I can write a cheque for 1500000¥, plus this 20000¥.”

“Half isn't enough!”  
“I had enough! And then I was robbed!”  
“Tough luck!” You say, raising your arm.  
“Wait.” You freeze and make eye contact with Tom. He shakes his head, willing you to back down. You nod and step back.  
“Prove to us you’re not lying.”  
“How?! I- I have text messages? And pictures?”  
“We will be taking the money you have now and I will review your proof.” The man quickly scrawls a cheque on his wall and hands the combined money to Tom with reverence. “Shizuo, look at the furniture.”

As Tom talks business and squints at the man’s phone screen, you take to investigating the prominent damage of a nearby shelf. Probably caused by being thrown over. You would know, you've done it enough. The table and couch also share signs of careless rushing rather than deliberate intention. So maybe the nondescript lowlife wasn't pulling an elaborate time-buying scheme out of his ass.

Hm. That's a first.

Tom negotiates without the need for your brutality, dealing out mercy and patience where you would only offer broken ribs. Sometimes you wonder how a guy like you met a guy like him. He’s bothered to listen to you when no one else trusted your temper, and he showed you it was possible to live a somewhat normal life. Sometimes you think about how easily he could have shied away, ignored instead of befriended you and it hurts. You don’t want to think about ‘what if,’ especially when you have now. You’re glad you’re Tom’s bodyguard, so you can legally beat the shit out of anyone who tries to fuck him over.

He finishes promptly like a respectable business man.

“I gave him another three weeks.”    
“Hm.”  
“You think he was telling the truth?”  
“Yeah. For once.”  
He smiles at you as his equal. “That damn Orihara-san, causing robberies…”  
You look at him inquisitively. “Izaya-kun?” He makes a confused little ‘o’ face.  
“Yeah? We always blame all our cases on Izaya, remember?”  
“Oh. Yeah.” He laughs and smiles brightly, looking down the street.  
“So then, what happened to Orihara-san being behind 99.99% of all misfortune in Ikebukuro?” You ponder the question.  
“I think it was the 0.01%.” It’s a fucking miracle. 

He quirks his eyebrow at you before shaking his head and continuing. “Next case, Akiyama Kentou. 8 months overdue. Turn left here...”

 

* * *

 

It’s ridiculously hot and your body is slicked with sweat under your dress shirt, but you decide against showering first. Because you’ll need the sensation of cool water hammering into your back afterwards. It’ll force you to relax.

Your phone is in your hand, and now that you’re looking at it, it seems far too small. His number is already pulled up, your thumb rests unmoving on the call button. You will yourself to do it, Press the fucking button or move your thumb, but it seems there’s something keeping your thumb pressed to it. Like soda-- sticky and unnaturally sweet.

You call. You call again. You call again. The receiver isn’t even near your face, because you know the shithead will hang up. You kill time eating a popsicle, waiting for him to pick up. Your lips twitch into a sadistic smile because you know it’s pissing him off.

_He fucking deserves it._

About 6 minutes of being hung up on and you decide you may as well try again after a shower.

...

Or maybe after dinner.

 

...

 

And a movie.

Soon enough, it’s 1:46 and you remember to call once more. But only once. You grapple for your phone without looking away from the end credit screen (a surge of pride welling up when you recognise Kasuka’s screen name), and dial without paying attention. It rings…

It rings and the tone is mechanical and unpleasant against your eardrums…  
It rings long and quiet…

Izaya picks up the last possible second. You hear him breathe lightly against the receiver.

“Didn’t think you’d pick up.” You say.  
“...Hello to you too, Shizu-chan.” He rasps.  
“You okay?”  
He laughs into the phone, calloused and cold. “Shizu-chan never fails to startle me. So kind! Where is all this civility coming from?” You wince at his maniacal grin that you feel more than hear. His voice is still rough. Why would his voice be rough? Did he just wake up? Or…  
“Are you sick?”  
More laughter. “Aww, look at him, trying to be a human. No luck Shizu-chan. We can all see you for what you are.”  
“...Your voice is weird.”

Dead silence. You’re onto something.

“...Have you eaten today?”  
“....” You try to imagine you’re talking to Kasuka.  
“You need to eat something.”  
“Thanks, I didn’t know. Because, of course, I missed all of Biology from the age of 6 to 17.” The image of Kasuka is shattered.  
“...Then eat.” He remains silent. Both of you are on edge, waiting for the other.  
“Why are you doing this.” His voice is evened out by now, the familiar oil-coated tone drizzling out of the speaker. And yet, he sounds fragile. He sounds as he did in that moment, staring over the city he owned. _I don’t know_ , he had said.

You swallow your pride for the last time tonight.

“Because I’m helping you.”

  
His dark chuckle is cut short by him terminating your call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is an edit because I forgot to put a chapter note! Yay! Uni is done now, so over the summer I intend to update more frequently. I have a few things planned that I think you all will like. I'm so glad that you guys are getting into this so much lol  
> This particular chapter is more thought-based than action-based. To me this seems weird, because I absolutely do not see Shizuo as a thought-based character. But it's good that he's taking his time to think about stuff.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains recollections of rape and minor self-harm. Also contains basically a panic attack.

Izaya let his hand drop into his lap, the screen still alight. He heard himself-- a dark chuckle that slowly transitioned to a hum-- but he wasn’t laughing. It wasn’t him, it was just his puppet body. He knew this because of the tightness in his chest, slowly rising, strangling him. Because he really felt sick.

A sardonic smirk danced on his lips; only Shizuo would chase after him, even when he was deliberately trying to avoid people. He would never let him be, even if he removed himself from Earth entirely.

Removed. 

That sounded nice: to be removed from humans entirely. He could cope if there was nobody around to fuck him over. If there wasn’t anybody to meddle, or attack him, or--

_ Hands pulling, pushing, forcing his body to contort. Fat, slimy fingers poking in his mouth. Pain shooting in sparks up his spine as he tried-- tried to resist. Hands, smearing across his chest, down, down. They grip his hips as they fuck him, raw and rough with nothing to ease it but spit and cum. Through drug-induced stupor, he fights, ripping away as best he can. To no avail. Fear swallowing, surging up, pinning his useless limbs. The man growls sweet, dirty, disgusting insults in his ear, muffling his screaming with fat fingers. And every nerve feels like it’s on fire from the drug, from the cock impaling him, from the rough hands dragging live wires across his skin. He wonders, will the hurt ever go away? He can make out the sheen of liquid on the floor; is it sweat? Saliva? Blood? Cum? Some concoction of all? Something else tugs at his jaw, probes at his mouth-- _

No. No. He would not think about it. He existed before it, so he could exist after. He could think of other things, he could still control his conscious mind if not his body or dreams. 

_ Anything else. Knife-throwing. Parkour. Shinra. Work. Ootoro. Anything. Shizu-chan. _

How abhorrent. Anything but Shizu-chan,  _ please _ . Desperately he grappled with severed strings of thought, clawing for something comforting. But his mind latched onto the distorted image of messy blond hair and harsh black on white. Shizuo, with his brazen intuition and his raging temper. Shizuo being just as irritating as terrifying.The ground beneath him shook with the collision impact of a vending machine that had grazed his coat. Was it a dare? Was it a challenge? Each time, Shizuo tried harder to hurt him.

The image of him, the ghostly memory of his growling and animalistic screaming is enough. He feels the chemicals in his brain coming alive, tingling as adrenaline does. How many times had he flirted with death because of his brute strength? How many times had his kissed its skeletal teeth with the promise of “ _ next time?”  _

A different fear prickles in his ribcage, tickling his lungs and heart; the kind of fear only brought on by years of near-misses and post-adrenaline crashes. With it came the learned instinct to run. Run until his body collapsed and he crawled into hiding.

No. That man had no right.

Why was it always Shizuo who chased after him? Why did the monster act like his only salvation? He should’ve been the one to bring on his demise. Shizuo was supposed to be the only one who had the power to drag him out of the sky.

But any plan involving Shizuo inevitably goes wrong.

Fuck. He almost preferred the hours of numbness and buzzing head space to this. At least in nothingness, his heart wouldn’t beat irregularly at memories. He wouldn’t feel constant fear and paranoia. 

Izaya observed the blood accumulating in his empty palm. Pretty red crescents against pale skin. Sickening. It seeped under his nails, uncut and stained. Now they were stained with blood.

 

* * *

**Incoming Text:  
** **Heiwajima Shizuo  02:03:  
** _ Hey _

**Heiwajima Shizuo 02:03:  
** _ I’m gonna come over tomorrow _

**Heiwajima Shizuo 02:04:  
** _ To make some food I mean _

**Heiwajima Shizuo 02:04:  
** _ I’ll bring all the ingredients this time so don’t worry about that _

**Heiwajima Shizuo 02:06:  
** _ Just leave your door open around 7 okay? _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO this was fast. Look at that, me being good at updating things. I like to think that Izaya doesn't have shizuo's number on his phone, he just has the number memorised. and he frequently calls him to piss him off. Shizuo, on the other hand, only knows Izaya's (personal) number because he needs to know which number to hang up on immediately. He only answers it when Izaya has been causing shit and he knows the flea is about to drop some info on him. He never thought he would actually call it lol  
> Also damn poor Izaya


	12. Chapter 12

In the brief seconds before it turns to throbbing anger, it’s not a shout of  _ kill kill kill _ , it’s a persistent whisper of  _ he’s here, he’s close, he’s going to fuck me up, he’s going to hurt me-- _

And then you’re gone.

But today you’re still here somehow. You feel yourself balancing on the familiar precipice between anxiety and rage, but you haven’t plunged into the latter yet. Instead, you’re restless.

It’s built into you by now; it has to be. Because he’s a flea, a bug in the system that has probably hacked your brain and reassembled any circuits he could to react especially to him. But it doesn’t feel like a computer glitch. It just feels like more adrenaline, all twitching fingers and shifting eyes and sweat condensing on your palms. Your hand is unsteady as you pull a bottle off the shelf. 

You figure you’ll make oyakodon: a simple, timeless classic that’s easy enough to pull off, even with your virtually nonexistent skills. Plus, it’s fast. And you’re already late by-- you glance at the tiny clock on your phone-- shit. About an hour. Fuck. You knock something over as your anxiety kicks up a notch. But then you imagine him waiting and impatient, annoyed, and a sick kind of happiness draws your mouth into a smirk. Fuck Izaya.

You lazily pull a t-shirt over your head and throw all the ingredients you can muster in a bag over your shoulder. You debate before chucking an ice pack in as well, in case you punch a wall again. It is Izaya, after all. You leave your apartment, only to run back in a moment later because you forgot your keys. It’ll be a half hour before you’re at his doorstep. Only a half hour to prepare mentally. To chase away the images of his villainous smile and remember how he fragile he looked asleep in cold water. 

But no matter how much you focus on his weakness, you still remember the shattering pain of being hit by a moving truck, being left for dead. So, you’re practically invincible. Doesn’t mean getting hit by a fucking truck doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t mean you’re not afraid of not waking up after a gunshot or a baseball bat to the head. Doesn’t mean you like chaos in your life.

The walk is peaceful. The train ride is crowded. Shinjuku is bright with thousands of electric signs and buildings that consume the overcast sky. It doesn’t look too different from ‘Bukuro. You can’t really tell if the blur of cars and people is movement, or your brain short-circuiting and narrowing in on your vision again. The thrum of adrenaline just barely there but still present. It’s like static on a television screen, but lurking in that back of your mind and even if you wrestle with it, it’ll still buzz there offering the occasional pinprick. But you can keep it at bay. (Maybe.)

Something hits you as off as soon as you near his apartment complex. Your body readies for a fight, preparing to uproot the nearest fence. You will yourself to move your frozen feet. You tell yourself nothing bad has happened yet, just walk forward. But that voice of instinct drums in your chest, chanting  _ “something is wrong, something is bad, attack it, attack it, attack it.” _

Still, you push forward. In the elevator, you smell traces of him. Walking down his hall, you can find his apartment more by the concentration of it than by memory. If you opened your mouth, you’re sure you’d be able to taste his presence. Somehow. It doesn’t make sense, but it never does. 

The door is unassuming and plain, just like every other door in the building. You beat your nerves into submission as you finally reach out to touch the handle. It’s locked. You jiggle it to make sure. Well, fuck. You didn’t come all the way here with eggs and chicken to leave right away. Can you… can you just break it open again?

You hear him first, come around the corner and when you look up to see those brilliant eyes, you still aren’t expecting the unadulterated malice they contain. At first, he almost looks surprised as he glances up and down your form.

“Hmph.” He snorts and puts his hand in his pocket, pulling out something small and metal and violently lobbing it at you.  _ Is it the key? _ But a flash of light reveals it’s a knife blade. Your catching hand bats it into the floor. Izaya’s footsteps and coat fur disappear behind the corner he came from. Your body jolts into a sprint after him, abandoning the food on the floor outside his apartment.

_ Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill... _

He waves at you as the elevator doors slide shut just out of reach. The digital counter above the metal frame tallies its ascension. You rapidly mash the up button, tapping your foot impatiently. Then you realise you have no clue where he’s going. The second elevator opens calmly with a soft  _ ding _ ; you mash every floor below the one you’re on before turning and sprinting to the stairs.

You power leap, skipping half flights as you try to beat him to wherever he’s going. The stairs echo with your breathing and your vigorous climbing. You can hear the elevators through the walls, the one on the left distant and stopping every floor, the other rocketing to the roof. The roof. You gain speed. You hear the elevator finally stop, two floors before the roof and you pause. Through the wall, you can only just hear someone enter the other staircase. You rest for only seconds, panting before jumping the last two staircases. As you finally reach the top, you burst through the door, legs burning from the climb.

“Izaya-kun!” You yell, sprinting to find him. And you do, just as he throws another knife blade at you. 

“Well well, I didn’t expect you to come.” He says, tone drenched in poison.  
“You threw a knife at me, you bastard!”  
“Yes, I’ll admit this time it was my fault--”  
“It’s always your fault, you piece of shit!” You bellow and stalk up to him, raising your fist. He eyes your readying punch and laughs.  
“And you claim to want to help me.” 

Your train of thought stutters to a halt. Is this what he’s pulling? Instead, you drop your fist and grab at his shirt. He ducks away and pulls another fucking knife from his pocket, brandishing it as a warning. “I’ll only say this once Shizu-chan, so listen up. I hate you, you hate me, and you’re going to stop pretending otherwise. I don’t need any help you can offer, you protozoan brute.” 

There’s a silence. The city ambience overpowers both of you, and the monochrome clouds roll by slowly. Somehow, for a brief second, it feels like you’re both kids again, establishing the rules of his twisted games for the first time. You hate it.

“I hate it.” Your voice is low and heavy. “And I hate you, you blood-sucking son of a bitch. That’s not changing anytime soon.”  
“Lovely!” He twirls his knife playfully. “Now get out--”  
“But you really think I’m going to let you kill yourself slowly because you can’t admit you need help with whatever-the-fuck?” He retracts his hand, but he’s too slow and too weak, and you’ve tugged the knife away before he can stop you. You fold it neatly, tucking it into your back pocket. You step forward, and a stroke of intracloud lightning illuminates the back of his coat. His eyes widen.

Then he’s sprinting away, back to the stairs, and you’re starting the game over again. As you rip open the stairway door, you see him disappear out the next door. You jump down the entire stair set, pushing yourself through the frame in a single movement. He’s tapping the button for the elevator you Christmas-treed, and when he looks to see you there, he scoffs and tears around to the other staircase.

You catch him turning jumping off the railing he had slid down and slipping around the corner of the stairwell. Fuck it. You jump down the entire thing again, landing loudly and not at all gracefully. He looks up at you, he speeds up. He abandons sliding down the rail for jumping three or four stairs at a time, eventually the entire flight like yourself. But when he lands, he jolts up too quickly, before his feet have claimed their balance and stumbles when you land behind him. He whips around, starting to run, but your grab his coat and yank, pulling him down. 

He fights, thrashing in your arms as you hold him tightly, closely. He kicks even more when you stand, taking him with you and pressing your back into the corner of the staircase. You grunt when he elbows you particularly hard, sinking down to the floor once again. You figure this is what it feels like to wrestle a giant river otter. He manages to elbow you again, painfully. You squeeze him until he can’t move, hopefully not enough to hurt him.

“Cut it the fuck out, Izaya.” You hiss into the back of his head. You can’t see his face but he finally freezes. You release your grip slightly and you can feel him breathe. If you wanted you could probably feel his heartbeat through his back. “I’m not trying to kill you, you know.”

He laughs at that, bitterly. “Let me go, Shizu-chan.” The words come out harshly and grate against your ears.  
“No.” You both know he’ll run away the second you let him go.  
“What are you waiting for?”  
“You to calm down, shut up, and let me make you food.” Even through his coat, you feel how thin he is.   
“Che.” He scoffs and lowers his chin. “Someone will see us.” He mutters.  
“Bullshit.” You rest your forehead no his shoulder, settling. “Nobody takes the stairs this high.”  
“Sure they do. Not everyone gets in fights so often it becomes exercise; some people have to do other things to lose weight, ne? Or maybe someone will take the stairs to visit a neighbour a floor away. The possibilities are endless, really.”  
You squeeze him harder. “Shut up, Izaya.” He does.

You were right, you can feel his heartbeat through his back. You’ve pressed entirely against the wall, relaxed except for your arms that hold him still, but he’s still tense and unmoving against you. You’re going to be here for a while.

“Shizu-chan doesn’t have any right to act like this.”  
“...Hah?”  
“Shizu-chan doesn’t have any right to act like he’s some kind of hero. You aren’t. You’re a monster.” He sneers.  
“No one else wants to help you at all, so fuck off.” You retort.  
“No one else is so nosy.”  
“Well it’s a damn good thing, isn’t it? Because you look worse every time I see you.”  
“How kind of you to say so. This is why you’ll never have a girlfriend.”  
“This is why no one likes you, flea.” You spit back.

  
“Stop trying to save me from nothing, Shizuo.”

“I’m not.”  
He makes a sarcastic sound.  
“I’m not trying to save you. I’m trying to help you. And it’s not from nothing, dumbass. It’s something.”

He laughs, softly, sadly. “Let me go, Shizu-chan.” He whispers. In that moment, you know intuitively that he doesn’t trust his voice. And the realisation makes your heart stutter.  _ This is real. _ Your arms tighten without your orders, and you’re holding him closer somehow, as if your body alone wants to protect him from something.

“I’ve left you to die before, you know? I’ve caused you to almost die plenty of times.”  
“Yeah. I know. I was there.  
“And?”  
“So? I’m not you.”  
“You don’t know anything.”  
“Yeah.”  
“And I never asked for your help.”  
“Yeah.”

Without Izaya starting a fight, the air itself is dead. He lays in your arms, still tense, still unmoving. Still an ass.  
“Relax, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”  
The same soft, sad laughter. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

You feel the hum start before you realise you’re humming. A familiar tune-- a lullaby. Something your mom used to sing to you, and you used to sing to Kasuka.

__ “Yurikago no uta wo  
__ Kanariya go utau yo  
_ Nenneko nenneko  
_ __ Nennekoyo”

You feel him shift. You smile slightly, singing the words quietly aloud. You’re probably off-key or something, but you can feel his limbs slowly relax. He must not mind that much. It’s weird to hear yourself sing when you haven’t in so long. Even more so when your voice echoes up and down the spine of the building.  _ “But it seems to be working for him,” _ you muse and glance down at the ball of black.

You finish the song in hums, as gently as you can. He’s quiet again, visibly more relaxed when you stop. He doesn’t look malicious. He doesn’t look manipulative. Is it even still Izaya? It can’t be. You and Izaya can’t exist in the same room without trying to kill each other every second.

He jolts to attention when a loud growl echoes through the entire stairwell. This time, you let him go and watch him spin around frantically.

“You hungry yet?” You ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very important notes:   
> 1) I MEAN GIANT RIVER OTTER. SEARCH SOUTH AMERICAN GIANT RIVER OTTER THOSE FUCKERS ARE BOTH HUGE AND VICIOUS. I MEAN IT. THE CAN BE LIKE 6FT LONG.  
> 2) The lullaby Shizuo was signing is called "The Cradle Song" or "ゆりかごの歌.” From what I can gather, it's pretty popular, so I figured there's a good chance they would both know it. I suggest listening to it and rereading the bit: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ye79VgSLeqE  
> This chapter was fun to write, if longer than expected. I hope they don't get salmonella from that forgotten chicken.


End file.
